Growing Up in Alameda: The Tahoe apartment fire

I was at home on Marina Drive, on the living room floor playing with my family and watching television. For some reason, though – I don’t remember why – Laura said that we looked at each other as if we heard an unusual sound and, within five minutes, a call came in from Central Fire. Dispatch was recalling me to work.

“The middle of town is burning,” they said.

“What’s the address?” I asked.

“Go outside and look; you’ll see where to go,” they replied.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I soon would: A jet fighter had fallen from 30,000 feet. Dispatch was right: As I looked from my front door about three miles west, the whole sky was lit up.

Driving down Lincoln, I couldn’t get past Oak Street because of the traffic already out to see this extravaganza. I turned west on Pacific and was able to get to Lafayette. I left my car and hoofed it to the scene.

At the time I didn’t know what had happened except that a four-story apartment building was fully involved, with a Victorian to the east and two apartment buildings to the south and west starting to burn.

Approaching the front, Engine 1 was set up with a long lay, 2-½ inch supply line, not nearly enough water to equip the three hoses going to Truck 1 with big torrent nozzles. Engine 1 was at the point of pulling a vacuum on the main hydrant and needed another supply. It was about as effective as a water extinguisher.

Truck 1 was setting up as a water tower but only had one 2-½ inch supply. The radios in the background were screaming for water.

All of our rigs were committed around the perimeter, as the call had gone out for mutual aid. I told Marv Helms that I would get him another supply. Reporting to Chief Estes, he said to grab any incoming mutual aid engine and to lay a line across town. I flagged an Oakland hose wagon and we laid cross-town to Lincoln Avenue on another water grid.

At the time, Oakland had three-inch hose and we had 2-½ inch. These were incompatible and Oakland didn’t carry adapters. Arriving at the hydrant, a Coast Guard rig was passing by. Their adapters were able to hook up and pump to Engine 1. The Naval Air Station crash trucks had arrived and were setting up foam.

From there, I went to help Captain Steckler set up 2-½ inch hose lines and to quick-train volunteers to hold them. I drug a supply line from another engine to the corner of Central and Union.

As I was hooking up, the northeast corner of the building collapsed. I could feel the intense heat washing over me. I wanted to run, but adrenaline helped me fight the heat as I succeeded in turning in the water. My pants were steaming as I ran for shelter a half-block away. Looking back, most of the block was on fire.

People had come out of the woodwork and firefighters were assigning civilians to hold nozzles so that they could put more lines into play. Traffic was hindering the movement of apparatus. It was orchestrated chaos. The screams were long silent now as we continued our battle. No other tactic at this point, except to surround and drown.

By 3 a.m., the building had collapsed in on itself. Smoke and steam were rising hundreds of feet into the air. In the floodlights I could see that the four-story building was now reduced to 12 feet of collapsed stucco and rebar. Most of the wood had been consumed.

I found myself sitting on a pile of stucco hidden in the steam with my 2-½ inch hose flooding the hot spots below. The thought came to mind that somewhere below are people, people who just six hours earlier were living life as usual. But suddenly they’re gone. I hoped they had made peace with God.

A week later, we were still there investigating, excavating and wondering why. It took a crane digging below ground level to find signs of the plane. Its engine had gone through a four-story building, a concrete slab, and 15 feet into the earth. The only remains found of the pilot were some wrist bone and the cuff of his flight jacket. There was very little sign of the 11 people unaccounted for.

Four months after the fire, we were still being greeted by people on the street, with thanks, good job, well done.